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Y
OU
’
VE MADE A KILLING
. Going
with your lover to retrieve a
portfolio of art, you somehow
manage to bring about the death
of someone you dislike, someone the reader
will no doubt dislike. What do you do? Call
911, or head out with your hot new lover on
the open road? Fortunately for us, Miranda
chooses the latter action.
Alfred Corn’s second novel is an olio: one part
On The
Road
, two parts existential examination of life, with a dash of
Iris Murdoch. One character’s choice leads to an inevitable
clash and transformation of another. As novels go,
Miranda’s
Book
employs a rather complex form to tell its tale. It is in fact
a novel within a novel, but with a twist. We learn early on that a
book called “Miranda’s Book” is being written by an accom-
plished African-American writer living in Brooklyn. His niece
is in prison. Why she is there and the justification for her fatal
actions are the subject matter of the book he is writing, a book
to which we as readers are given privileged access. Mark
Shreve is the writer and he appears in his own novel as Uncle
Matthew. His niece is Marguerite and her fictional name in his
novel is Miranda.
Not only does the novel within a novel provide us with a de-
tailed, exquisite account of Miranda’s journey through three
countries and her mental processes and feelings along the way;
it also presents the author, her uncle, who
has his own feelings and views about what
led up to the killing and his niece’s flight
after the deed. Consequently, Uncle Mark
Shreve is as much on an existential quest
as his niece, Marguerite, the Miranda of his
novel.
If all this sounds too convoluted to be
readily grasped, it isn’t. The chapters describing the uncle/au-
thor’s point of view, misgivings, and thoughts about the ethics
and the æsthetics of what he’s doing blend with the primary
story, giving it an added dimension. In one of the uncle’s self-
analysical chapters, he recalls Gore Vidal: “Gore, for his part,
ridiculed me even to my face, saying I was a pathetic closet case
who wrote about heterosexuals with no firsthand knowledge of
the subject.” Is this true, or do we believe Shreve’s rebuttal? Are
we reading about Shreve’s reflections, or author Alfred Corn’s?
Furthermore, when we read, for instance, that Miranda is on
a long flight enjoying a novel by Trollope, we are simultane-
ously aware that it may be the real-life uncle who has read Trol-
lope, not the real niece, Marguerite, in the fictional form of
Miranda. One of the mysteries the reader is left to ponder is the
degree to which what happens in the novel within the novel,
Mi-
randa’s Book
, is true to the niece he is defending. Miranda is al-
ways also her uncle, the writer. As he says himself, “I could
hardly tell Marguerite’s story without bringing in my own.”
Add to the mix that Miranda is half Jewish and half African-
American, while her uncle is a well-to-do, highly intellectual,
A Novel about Writing a Novel
writer ever had such chances of success as Fitz-James O’Brien
... and but one American writer ever threw such chances away
so recklessly.” And who might that one reckless writer be?
We’re not told. “Clapp had spent time with women such as Oc-
tavie”—who is ... a countess? a courtesan? You’ll search in vain
for an explanation.
More serious is Martin’s skewed assessment of Whitman’s
poetry. He seems to admire “O Captain, My Captain,” a hugely
popular poem then as now, but one of the worst and least char-
acteristic of things Whitman ever wrote. (It embarrassed him
for the rest of his life.) Martin says that the 1860 third edition
of
Leaves
is, in part, “obscene,” a breathtaking opinion that par-
rots the Puritanical view of Whitman’s most benighted critics,
and he adds that in that same edition “Moments of supernatural
clarity follow muddied stretches of utter artistic chaos.” Whit-
man can be metaphorically dense, yes, but artistically chaotic?
Never. Such grossly wrong-headed views are only slightly mit-
igated by Martin’s placing Whitman in the company of Homer
and Dante, which is precisely where he belongs.
Despite these caveats, however, the book is both engaging
and helpful, of value to scholars and general readers alike. Mar-
tin is a companionable guide who juggles his large cast of char-
acters with aplomb, and his narrative line is always clear and
energetic. He also provides helpful and fascinating cultural and
historical context throughout. During the decade or so that
Clapp’s crowd gathered at Pfaff’s, the United States went
through seismic events. The
Dred Scott
decision of 1857 was
followed by the Panic of the same year, the first worldwide eco-
nomic crisis. Two years later saw John Brown’s attempted raid
at Harper’s Ferry, and the following year the newly formed Re-
publican Party nominated Abraham Lincoln as its presidential
candidate. Within months of Lincoln’s election, the Civil War
began, and four years later it was concluded on the eve of his
assassination. All during this period, Congress was at least as
dysfunctional as it is today, if you can imagine such a thing—
sometimes erupting in violent brawls on the floors of both cham-
bers. (In 1856 Senator Preston Brooks of South Carolina caned
Senator Charles Sumner of Massachusetts so badly that Sumner
never fully recovered.)
This historical and cultural context enriches Martin’s narra-
tive and also provides the opportunity for delightful discoveries
along the way, such as the news that “The phrase
well rounded
derives from phrenology and is based on the notion that an ac-
tualized person has a nicely shaped head, without any distortive
bumps.” Notwithstanding its flaws, then,
Rebel Souls
is an en-
joyable and a valuable read, and Justin Martin is to be com-
mended for shining a light on this neglected but influential
group in our cultural history.
J
ACK
M
ILLER
Miranda’s Book
by Alfred Corn
Eyewear Publishing. 323 pages, $20.
Jack Miller is a teacher and writer based in Atlanta.
May–June 2015
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